Page 114 of Down Bad

I turn the empty mug around and around in my hand, waiting on coffee, waiting on answers, waiting on thoughts to come.

We’re not boyfriends. The words I slung at him keep haunting me. I hated how they felt. I hated losing my cool so much. I hated that I had to yell at the one person in this town who might actually be seeing what I go through every day.

I like being generous. Kind. Making others smile.

I never once considered my kindness had any toll.

What if others are taking advantage of me? What if the gift of Mr. Bellamy’s greed is simply that he’s more upfront about it?

Fuck. Am I actually agreeing with Diego now?

I’ve taken my mug of coffee to a table I never sit at, right by a front window, tiny little thing, still covered in a few of my mom’s arts and crafts stuff, skinny window that looks out onto the street. I don’t know if Diego works today. Some Saturdays he does. Others he doesn’t. I only take Sundays and Mondays off, and even those, I spend making plans, organizing, checking my babies here at home in my greenhouse, or sometimes just going into the shop anyway to prepare for the week.

I suddenly find myself envying Mr. Bellamy’s assistants.

Brighthouse’s staff of countless employees.

The owners of such business who can issue orders, work their reasonable amount, and actually have time to breathe and enjoy the pleasures of living a life that isn’t rooted in constant work.

Stopping on paths to smell the flowers, so to speak.

Forgive the pun.

After I finish my coffee, I’m at the sink with my mug, staring down at it, and suddenly I can’t believe I had a lapse in judgment, envying someone as greedy and cold-hearted as Grant.

I love my life the way it is. The old ladies whose porch bulbs I change. The relationships I’ve nurtured. The smiles around town.

Isn’t all of that exactly what keeps me going?

Isn’t all of that enough?

I’m changed and ready for work when a knock at the door stops me cold.

I stare at my front door, keys in hand, trapped by the knock.

Because now, for the first time, I’m wondering what Diego’s night was like. Did I go too far? Maybe he couldn’t sleep at all. He’s here now on my front doorstep with a mountain of thoughts he’s about to dump all over me. Or apologies I don’t deserve. Or maybe he’s holding his orchid and wants a refund on it, finished with me.

Or the house sold and he’ll be gone by tomorrow.

My heart drops.

I keep forgetting that terrifying fact.

Diego Valdez is only here for now.

He’s not my neighbor.

He’s a passing guest.

I regret everything at once. Raising my tone. Blaming him. All I want to do is forgive him and ask if he wants to come inside. If he wants to have some coffee before work. Talk things over. Eat some burnt toast and overdone eggs. I’ll do it all with him.

I rush to the front door and pull it open.

It’s … not Diego.

“What took you so long, little bro?” asks Connie, annoyed.

In a purple tank top with a giant pink flower on the front and curlicue letters that spell: Too Cute To Care.